American Beauty

I hated that movie. I didn't get it. Add it to the list along with "Punch Drunk Love", "Lost in Translation" and "WALL-E".

Maybe I was just too young to understand it at the time. If I were to watch it now, would I enjoy it? I'm dubious.

Today our new coasters from Crate & Barrel arrived. They're made of rope. Very nautical. I can't wait until I rest my first mug of tea on one. I'm eager to see how it protects our newly-painted, white coffee table from unsightly cup rings. If all goes well, nothing will happen.

Stay tuned for updates.

I don't know if you knew this, but this blog is art. I'm an artist. Or as we in the marketing industry like to say, I'm a "creative". Ruminate on that.

Amen,
Margaret

P.S. I took a quiz today to see if I would get into Oxford. Based on my score, I would not.

P.P.S. The credit card machine at our local coffee shop wasn't working. They were having to use an old-school slider doohickey. But wait! These days, credit cards don't have the raised numbers. They're not bumpy anymore! How can one make an imprint? One cannot.

A day at the beach

Mahalo, 

Margaret

P.S. This blog post. What a cop-out. 

From the Archives, Edition 9

Unfortunately I'm too exhausted from moving (yay), shopping at Target (yay) eating lots of shrimp tacos (yay) and accidentally asking for the bill instead of the preferred American wording, "the check" (nay), to write a proper blog post tonight.

If anything will take it out of you, it's those four things.

So, today's 'From the Archives' post is simply a couple photos of my dad that I found in a box of old photos in K-town the other day.

Tootles,
Margaret

P.S. One time I wrote a reflective essay about working at the Ultimate Bagel for an English class at Gonzaga. We had to write the essay in class, so no spell-checker. When I got it back, I realized I'd spelled bagel wrong throughout the entire piece. Bagle. I'd written it at least 30 times.

Not sure why I chose to tell you this now. Suppose I felt guilty about not writing very much.

It's a sign

We're walking along the Seaside prom when I suddenly have a hankering for a grilled cheese (basic, just how I like 'em). My mom suggests Dairy Queen. She went to one with my grandma recently and noticed that they had them on the menu.

So, the three of us—my mom, my dad and I—set course for the DQ.

The girl behind the counter is new on the job, but she's already over it. We suspect she was out late last night. Yawning a bunch. Mascara dust under the eyes. General slowness. But hey, I'll throw her a bone. There's no air conditioning in the Seaside DQ. The place doesn't just smell like a hamburger, it feels like you're living inside of a hamburger. It's a beef sauna. A sweat lodge made of Grade F hamburger meat.

Adding insult to injury, she can't figure out how to ring us up for a side grilled cheese (i.e. one on its own, not part of a kid's meal). She calls over her coworker who is equally clueless. Then another employee tries. But nope, the side grilled cheese button is nowhere to be found. As the line grows behind us, employee #3 shouts toward the back, "JEREMYYY! HEY JEREMY—where's the cheese sandwich!?" Jeremy to the rescue. It's under 'Bakes', dummies.

We pay. We wait.

The chef comes out from the kitchen and walks up to our table. This can't be good. No bread, she says. How about she uses a hamburger bun instead? Is that OK? Of course it's not OK, but of course I say it is. I'm not willing to give up the dream.

Cheese-bun arrives. Dry. No butter. Tastes horrible.

I reevaluate life and decide it's a sign. I didn't need the calories and I wasn't even hungry. It was Lewis and Clark's (patron saints of Seaside) way of encouraging me to eat healthier.

The end.

Speaking of signs, look at these two signs I came across recently.

Well, I can imagine! It is a giant hole in the ground filled with urine and feces (faeces if you're British). 

Photo taken in a biffy at the base of a hiking trail. 

Dear City of Vancouver, don't tell me what I am or am not expecting. In fact, I WAS expecting to get hit by a cyclist, or a flying beach umbrella or a drunk driver or a falling piano. I walk around always assuming that death is nigh.

Goodnight,
Margaret

P.S. This was a weird post, but I'm in Seaside using my phone as a Wi-Fi hotspot and I don't have the data to rethink it.

Activity Awards

There's a shop in Edinburgh called 'Activity Awards'. It sells and engraves plaques and trophies for sports teams, etc. Andy and I always thought the name was funny because it's just so uncreative and generic sounding. 

Anyway, today we were up at 4:30 this morning and didn't stop doing activities until just a couple minutes ago. We took the train from Canada to Edmonds, complete with an official immigration visa initiation. We lunched in Edmonds, dinnered at Denny Beach and, finally, we pizzaed at Alki. 

It's safe to say we've won the Activity Award. That's it! We've done it! That shop can close now. The Activity Award belongs to us. 

The bowl at Alki this evening.

Photo credit: Ram Williamson

Now I'm tired. Sweet dreams!

Goodnight, 

Margaret

Juice moustache

I can't write tonight because I've eaten too many Icebreakers Sours and can't concentrate on anything for longer than two seconds.

Instead, I'm giving you a photo-heavy post. THREE photos for the price of one blog post. Aren't you lucky.

SO delish. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure Ice Breaker Sours are what Elvis OD-ed on. 

Do you ever look at clothes you wore as a kid and think, 'I wish I had that in grown-ass woman size?'
Also, check out that juice moustache. Or is it choc milk?

Francie and I at Arrowhead. 1989? 1990?

Even back then we had great calf definition. #PaddenCalves

Finally, I'd like to briefly mention how annoying it is when news media gets involved in April Fools Day. And how lame it is that they loooove themselves for being JUST SO SILLY!

I bet they say things like, "It's the one day we get to take off our journalist hats and really let loose!"

Ugh. It's like watching your high school teachers all dressed up and socializing with each other whilst chaperoning a school dance. So smugly pleased with themselves.

Today The Guardian did a piece on how Jeremy Clarkson was supporting some fossil fuel divestment campaign following his sacking from the BBC. Laugh it up, Guardian! LAUGH IT UP.

Yours,

Margaret

That time we almost got kidnapped

I found some photos of my siblings and I posing in/next to a man's vintage yellow convertible. It was taken in Seaside, Oregon circa 1991. The man was cruising around with two giant teddy bears in the backseat and offered to take us for a spin.

I remember this like it was yesterday, and we talked about it for years afterward. How cool it was. First of all, a convertible! It was a thrill to even spot one, let alone ride in one. Secondly, the big bears. It's impossible to resist giant stuffed animals.

I showed my Mom the photos tonight and she gasped.

"Oh God! That's my most shameful moment as a parent," she said.

"I was totally taken in by the spectacle, and I let him drive away with you all. He just seemed like such a kind man. And it was so fun. It was only after you were gone for a long time that I thought: oh no, what if he's some pervert?"

Thankfully, he happened to be one of the few giant teddy bear chauffeurs that isn't a pedophile. We lucked out.

That's all for tonight. It's been a busy day and I'm going to treat myself to a bath + Mindy Project + glass of ice water.

Later gater,

Margaret

The ghost of Facebooking past

When I first met Andy I remember him boasting, "I've never once untagged myself in a Facebook photo, no matter how unflattering."

I must admit, it was that bold chat that lured me in. I mean, what a way to live your life! Leaving all the bad-angle, double chin, lazy eye, fat arm snaps out on display for the world to see.

Unlike Andy, I've untagged myself a few times. I don't untag anymore, but I did back in the day. Still, I've left enough cringetastic gems in there to keep things interesting.

Today I took a stroll down Facebook memory lane and I came across one particularly hilarious photo. It's not the photo so much that's funny, but the stuff around it. There were three elements that made me guffaw. I've circled them in red.

Speaking of Facebook, did you hear that you can now select a person to take control of your account when you die? I'm currently accepting applications. I can't choose Andy because he will definitely use it as an opportunity to prank me posthumously. He'll change my status to "greetings from the grave" or something.

Whichever candidate I choose, your first job is to turn my all my Facebook activity over the years into a hardback book to be preserved in The Library of Congress until the end of time. Your second job is to delete my account so that it can't be used as a shrine (kind of like with Osama).


Well, that got morbid fast.

Love,
Margaret

Wildest dream

Since I was a kid, I've always dreamed of being presented with shoeboxes full of strangers' photos that happen to capture me in the background. Every unintentional photobomb I'd ever done in my entire life. There'd be videos too. And I would spend all day studying the prints and watching the footage of my true self. 

One time Andy's brother was clicking his way through various friends-of-friends' Facebook photos and came across a zoomed out shot of Australia's Bondi Beach. It was packed towel-to-towel with sunbathers, but who did he spot in the bottom left corner? It was Andy! This random guy who took the photo—a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of Andy's brother—just happened to be in Australia, at Bondi Beach, on the same day as Andy in 2006. 

When he sent us the link to the photo, we freaked out. It was CRAZY. Like that time, freshman year, when Barbie and I each said "there's a snake in my boot" at the exact same time completely unprompted and for no clear reason whatsoever. We'd been sitting in silence for about an hour studying, and then we just said it. It was creepy.

It must have been such a thrill for Andy to see himself in the wild like that. He came as close as anyone could to experiencing my shoebox dream. #Jealous

That's all for this Saturday evening. I put up some Christmas lights in our kitchen window, and pushpins + hard wooden window sill = blister on my thumb. But in some positive boil-related news, my zit from yesterday has formed a whitehead! The end is nigh for that sore-nose eyesore!

See ya, 

Margaret

P.S. Now I can't find the photo of Andy on Bondi Beach. I am working on it though. 

P.P.S. This post still needs a photo. This one should do. It's from a controversial gender-defying 'sexy Santa' photo shoot I did with Andy back in 2009. 

Too edgy for Madgspace?
Come on, people. It's called ART.

But I was just doing what Sheryl Sandberg told me to!

Andy and I sent off his US visa forms this week. We each needed a 2x2 inch photo to pair with our 'Biographic Information' page. There's a kiosk in the Post Office by our house that does all types of official ID photos, so we pooled our change (£7 each!!) and took turns behind the curtain.

Example photo booth. Not the actual kiosk we used.
Image by Paste Talk via Wikimedia Commons

Andy went first, while I bought scissors, envelopes, paperclips and pretty much every other office material required to send a letter. That happens every time. I swear, each Post Office visit costs me at least £20.

His photo turned out great. He even managed to get a smize in there. That handsome devil.

Then, it was my turn. Andy had lowered the stool so he could squeeze himself into the tight quarters, but I couldn't figure out how to raise it back up again. Instead, I just did this hover-squat thing and focused on lining my noggin up perfectly with the oval outline on the screen.

4  3  2  1...CHEESE!

Happy with my first take, I pressed the print button and listened to the machine's miniature mechanical brushstrokes paint my face with ink.

After about a minute, the pics dropped into the tray and OH MY GOD MY HEAD. It was huge. It made Andy's look like a grape with shoulders. He looked at it and said, "Hmm...why did you lean in?"

I seriously don't think they'll accept it, but it's not like I had another seven £1 pound coins stuffed in my wallet. So off it went—recorded delivery.

Hopefully they're so bewildered by the bowl cut that they just stamp 'accepted' and send us the visa posthaste.

Nighty night,
Smadge